


The Pokemon Whisperer

by lunaesomnium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Disney Princess-esque Harry Potter, Don't copy to another site, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post War, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:11:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaesomnium/pseuds/lunaesomnium
Summary: Harry is positive he went to sleep in his bed, in his room at 12 Grimmauld Place. But that doesn't explain why or how he'd woken up in a forest, nor does it explain the strange creatures that had gathered around him as he'd slept and hadn't left since.





	The Pokemon Whisperer

**Author's Note:**

> this one is just indulgent fluff i have no excuse except i want harry to have a pikachu

Harry's not really sure how it happens.

He goes to bed in Sirius' old bedroom _alone_ and lonely, because he and Ginny never got back together after the war (and as far Harry knew, she was currently happily dating Luna though it had been awhile since they had last spoken) and lonely because while everyone else had (seemingly) been able to move on with their lives, Harry_ hadn't._ Perhaps it was because he'd died and come back or perhaps it was because Harry wouldn't know healthy coping mechanisms if they hit him in the face, but something was keeping him in the past and something wasn't letting him move on from the war. So when others began to move on when Harry couldn't, he began to isolate himself from his friends in the hope that maybe they'd be better off without him bringing the mood down.

Of course, that had lasted for about a week and a half before Hermione had come through his Floo and scolded him for being an idiot while dragging him to the Burrow for dinner (which of course, he'd appreciated and seeing everyone had made him feel better). But that had been months ago, and although Harry was sure to attend the weekly Weasley dinners (lest Hermione _and_ Ron burst through his Floo this time) he rarely went anywhere else.

The Wizarding World had reverted back from dystopian hellscape it'd been during the brief time with Voldemort in power (or the closest thing to being in power) to a bit like what'd it'd been when Harry had first been introduced to it: full of awe and children who were eager to attend Hogwarts, who who were unaware of the war, and saw only the wonder of magic. And even those that had been a part of the Wizarding World or even a part of the war were able to make a place for themselves in the new post-war world, but the problem remained that Harry _couldn't._ Each time he went out in public and saw how people had come together and moved on, Harry was reminded that that there wasn't much room for a traumatized ex-savior, one who hadn't learned how to grieve properly and didn't know how to ask for help. So with every visit to the outside world just made him feel more out of place, he began isolating himself more and more until he felt like he couldn't leave the house anymore.

So he didn't. Not unless it was time for weekly Weasley family dinners and not if he didn't absolutely need to.

As a result, he spent a lot of time in the dreary Black ancestral home, stuck in the past and mulling over the body count of the war. Directly after the war with trials, Death Eaters still amuck, and funerals to plan, there hadn't been time to process all that had happened during the war. All the death, all of the destruction - there hadn't been time to think about all that immediately after the war, so he'd put it off.

And now months and months and months later he finally begins to process everything, but the guilt sometimes makes that hard. It's even worse when he thinks about Sirius because while he can mostly convince himself that he wasn't at fault for the many that had fallen during the Battle at Hogwarts … that's never the case for Sirius. Because it was his fault that Sirius had died - that he'd been in the Department of Mysteries in the first place. There was no one else to blame for Sirius being there, that day (well, except maybe Voldemort, but Harry should've _known_ better).

And the thought hurt. When Harry's alone in his house, he sometimes wishes that the Resurrection Stone had offered him more closure when it'd called upon Sirius' shade … and last night was no different.

He had a nightly routine, Harry did - brushing his teeth, lying in bed for a bit, sometimes hours at a time. Sometimes he read, sometimes he couldn't muster up the motivation to do so. Last night was one of those nights. It'd felt like something heavy had settled onto his chest and he'd felt guilt. From his inability to do normal, everyday things like spend time with his friends to his part in Sirius' death, the guilty about almost every aspect of his life it'd been nearly overwhelming.. He wished - as he often did - that he'd gotten closure, that he hadn't gone to the Department of Mysteries, that he could see Sirius one last time. After a while, the thoughts had gotten to be terribly miserable and to shut them off, he'd reached into his bedside table and pulled out a Dreamless Sleep potion. When he'd downed that, sleep had come fast and he'd welcomed the oblivion - as it was much better than mulling in guilt and self-hatred.

And that was all well and fine, but none of that explained why, if he'd fallen asleep in 12 Grimmauld Place, he hadn't _woken up there_.

The Dreamless Sleep potion always left his system in bits and pieces if he drank the full dose, so when he wakes the morning after taking it - he doesn't notice right away where he is. He's still somewhat drifting in that peaceful place between dreaming and wakefulness and it takes him a few more moments to realize that - the smells and sounds that surround him are nothing like what would occur in his house … and more importantly he's not in his bed.

Before he opens his eyes, he tries to take stock of his surroundings, just in case someone was monitoring him to see when he would wake. He's … probably outside, given that he's lying down on the ground. His left hand grazes some form of water as it lays limp at his side and for as long as Harry's been awake and aware, there's been something brushes up against said hand, most likely a fish of some sort though Harry, of course, can't be sure given that his eyes are still closed. The ground that he's been relocated to is damp and the grass beneath him is itchy and uncomfortable against his neck and the side of his face.

Physically, he's fine. He hasn't been injured and he's not in any pain, despite the fact that he's been laying on the ground for Merlin knows how long. Emotionally …

Harry sort of regrets not taking a double-dose of Dreamless Sleep. It's dangerous to do so, but living life is a bit easier when he's unconscious. There's not guilt, there's no anxiety or grief … no heavy weight that settles onto his chest and makes it hard to breathe …

And speaking of that familiar heavy weight on his chest - it's still there. Which is both strange and comforting, because while it usually takes awhile for Harry's negative emotions to build up to the point where it's feels like a physical pain, the thought that he's an emotional mess no matter where he is not as terrible as it seems considering how used to it Harry is.

Not feeling anyone watching him and unwilling to act like he's sleeping for any longer, Harry slowly opens his eyes and then begins to sit up when no one stops him from doing so.

Which … strangely causes that heavy weight on his chest to shift downwards, causing him to pause in the middle of sitting up.

In the awkward (and slightly painful) halfway point between sitting and reclining (with a wet hand from where he'd pulled it out of the water to assist him as he sat up) and still a bit groggy from taking the Dreamless Sleep potion last night, it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that perhaps the heavy weight that had settled onto his chest while he slept isn't quite as imaginary as he'd assumed.

And it's that thought that has him shoving off the lingering grogginess and with panic mounting, wondering if the people responsible for his kidnapping had placed something onto his chest as he slept, that he glances downwards, where the weight on his chest has relocated to his stomach.

But it's not the nefarious magical contraption that Harry had expected. Nor is it, Harry suspects, nefarious at all. Instead it's a tiny brown fox-looking creature with a tuft of white hair surrounding the creature's neck that looks both disgruntled at being woken, and adorable all the same.

It's unlike any creature Harry's seen, somewhat fox-like but still very different, what with it's very long ears, but considering that Harry's seen spiders bigger the average adult male, it's not the strangest thing he's ever seen.

And if Moody were here, he'd surely be screaming about _constant vigilance_ and reprimanding Harry for letting his guard down in an unknown location, but Harry thinks that even _Moody_ would be hard-pressed to be angry when faced with the little creature nuzzling into his stomach, especially when it's yawn sounded more like a tiny squeak.

At the sound, Harry's heart sort of melts and he resolves to worry about how he'd gotten into this forest later - or at least until the animal woke up, as in seconds after its yawn, it had fallen back asleep on his stomach and Harry (soft-hearted idiot that he was) was loathe to wake it.

So instead of getting up to explore the forest he'd woken up in, he simply sits all the way up watching as the creature settles comfortably onto his lap, nose twitching. And it's then, sitting up, that he notices he and the animal on his lap aren't alone.

"Huh," Harry blinks at the sight of another brown fox creature to his left (though this one has _multiple_ tails, which again, not the strangest thing he's ever seen, but pretty strange nonetheless) and a black and orange striped dog-looking creature lying near his feet. "Wasn't … really expecting _that._"

And then he sighs, because really. Harry should've known that his life would continue to surprise him, even after the war.

At least _this_ time, said surprise wasn't deadly.

Or Voldemort-shaped.

(Hopefully.)

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr!! i ramble about fics a lot :3
> 
> tumblr: lunae-somnium


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